


classified

by notcaycepollard



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/F, I don't know really what this is, but: what if Peggy and Waverly were friends, poor peggy, spy women being wonderful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 19:29:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5677900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's just Peggy, Miss Teller, I must insist. Or Agent Carter, if you prefer."</p><p>"Then you must call me Gaby, please," Gaby tells her, and when Carter - <em>Peggy</em> - smiles, Waverly clears his throat.</p><p>"We've a mission for you," he says. "Something solo, for a change. Not that I don't appreciate your work with the others, of course, but this requires a degree of subtlety."</p><p>"What are the details?" Gaby says, and Waverly defers to Peggy in a way that tells her he's only the facilitator, for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	classified

The mission is not like any of her other missions.

When Gaby arrives at the hotel cafe, Waverly is not alone at the table. He's sitting with another woman, all dark hair and sharp eyes, and to Gaby's trained gaze, she's as much an agent as Gaby. Perhaps more so.

"Ah, Miss Teller," Waverly greets her, as easily polite as ever, gestures for her to join them. Close to, his companion is early forties, the barest touches of grey in her hair, and is wearing red lipstick so impeccably that Gaby is reluctantly impressed.

"I see we have a guest," Gaby says, her tone barely questioning, and Waverly smiles.

"A favour," he says. "For an old friend."

"Peggy Carter," the woman introduces herself, offers Gaby her hand.

"Gabrielle Teller," Gaby replies, polite, and something makes her switch to German. " _Wie geht es Ihnen_?"

" _Es geht mir sehr gut, und Ihnen_?" Carter responds, her accent flawless. Gaby hasn't heard German spoken so well in some time, and it makes her smile, unexpected.

"Well, thank you," she says. "Where did you learn to speak German so well, Miss Carter?"

"In Nazi Germany. During the war. And it's just Peggy, Miss Teller, I must insist. Or Agent Carter, if you prefer."

"Then you must call me Gaby, please," Gaby tells her, and when Carter -  _Peggy_ \- smiles, Waverly clears his throat.

"We've a mission for you," he says. "Something solo, for a change. Not that I don't appreciate your work with the others, of course, but this requires a degree of subtlety."

"What are the details?" Gaby says, and Waverly defers to Peggy in a way that tells her he's only the facilitator, for this.

"A simple mission," Peggy says matter-of-factly. "Surveillance only. We require a photo, something clear enough to confirm identity. Maintaining cover is imperative. The target cannot be aware his identity is compromised."

"Why me?" Gaby asks. "Why come to me, alone? You must surely have many agents available. Why, Waverly, when I work so well in a team?" The last, said with some small irony. Istanbul hadn't exactly been successful, and Macau barely any better. They're ironing out the kinks, but it's slow-going (and Gaby's palm still tingles from the slap she gave Solo before she left them behind).

"I want this kept clear of my agency," Carter tells her. "Entirely clear. And so, I approached an old friend."

"And I you," Waverly says, as if it's simple. Gaby tilts her head a little.

"Your agency," she says, and Carter smiles.

"I'm afraid that's classified," she tells Gaby, and Gaby makes a small noise, humming almost under her breath.

"Classified above U.N.C.L.E.?" she asks, and Carter nods, just once. Spare in her movements, and precise, and glacially focused. Gaby might be a little in love. It's refreshing, after working with Illya and Solo for so many months, to avoid all of their hyper-masculine posturing.

 

Gaby knows it is not as simple as Waverly makes it out to be, but she also knows, with something less than pride and more than hubris, that she is his best and most trusted agent, and that she excels at easy, understated subterfuge. This is not a secret she will pass to MI5, or the KGB, or CIA, or Mossad, or any other agency. She is Waverly's, alone, and that makes her Carter's agent, and reliable, for the duration of this mission.

"Even so," Gaby says, "I can't exactly go in with a Kodak camera strung around my neck."

"No," Peggy agrees, and passes her a cigarette lighter. "Top of the line spycraft, I believe you'll find. Designed by our best scientist, at any rate. I think you'll find it suits."

"Ah," Gaby says, takes a cigarette from Waverly's silver case. "And the target?"

"The less you know of him, the better," Peggy says, in a way that is much too casual. She's good, this Agent Carter, very good, but Gaby sees the faint tremor of her fingers, for just a moment before she laces them together. "All we need is the photograph."

"With this little gadget," Gaby says, picks up the camera, lights her cigarette and clicks the button. "Simple." She considers Peggy's face for a long moment. "Simple," she says again, blows out a long stream of smoke.

 

The mission is, in fact, very simple. Gaby's insignificant, when she needs to be, and very good at undercover. She waits, for a long time, until the target enters the bar. Waits again for a clear shot. Smokes almost a packet, just to be certain. Silk Cut, for some reason; she's never had a preference.

When she returns to the hotel, it's with an envelope of photographs, carefully processed in her own bathroom darkroom. Grateful she has her own suite, here in Helsinki, and that Illya and Solo are cities away, working out their own aggressions somewhere very sunny and very warm. Illya would have been suspicious, and Solo worse,  _curious_. The photos have come out well, she thinks, considering them with a professional eye. Good angles. Almost a model portfolio, in fact, given the target's clear blue eyes, high cheekbones, sweep of dark hair. Good-looking, except for the expression that Gaby's learned means anger issues, and probably Russian involvement.

She knocks at Peggy's door, waits for her to answer. Steps inside without waiting for an invitation, passes Peggy the photographs.

"Oh," Peggy murmurs, "you don't mind if I..." and she pulls them open, distracted. There's a long pause, and then she sinks into a chair, makes a noise in the back of her throat that sounds like a sob.

"Peggy," Gaby says, alarmed, and then, sharper, " _Agent Carter_." The photographs are scattered at Peggy's feet, and Gaby kneels to collect them, touches her gently on the ankle. "Peggy," she says again, and Peggy blinks, looks down at her, reaches for one of the photos.

"Oh," she says again, and Gaby sees how her fingers are shaking, the photograph fluttering so much Gaby can feel the sweep of air across her face. "I'm dreadfully sorry," Carter says, all crisp boarding-school-English modulation wrapped across what Gaby can still hear are barely repressed tears, "it... it was rather a shock, actually. Shouldn't have been. But was."

"What you need," Gaby tells her, throwing caution to the wind, "is a strong drink." Peggy actually laughs at that, sits back in her chair for a minute.

"Yes," she says. "I suppose I do. You wouldn't mind pouring us one, would you?"

The minibar scotch smells awful, and Gaby's never liked it since Victoria Vinciguerra's trick back in Italy, but they're in Finland and she supposes the vodka will be alright. Drops ice cubes into heavy crystal tumblers, pours them both a large measure, doesn't bother with anything else. Peggy sips and winces then sips again, a larger mouthful, swallows, and Gaby can't help but watch the movement of her throat, the print of lipstick she leaves against the rim of the glass.

"Someone you knew?" Gaby asks, a question that's too invasive but which she voices anyway, tilting her head at the paper packet. Peggy pauses, considers Gaby thoughtfully.

"I thought I did," she says eventually. "Once. Perhaps just a trick of the light."

"A ghost," Gaby says, because she knows about ghosts. She sips her own drink, swallows slowly. Gaby can feel every cigarette that she smoked, the way her throat burns. 

"Yes," Peggy agrees, very soft, and her eyes look far away. "Perhaps." 

 

Gaby waits two more drinks before she leans in, presses her mouth carefully against Peggy's, and the English woman exhales in surprise against her lips. Her breath is cold from the ice of the drink, but when she kisses back, drags her fingers through Gaby's hair, makes a small and ragged noise, she's warm enough.

"I'm sorry," she says afterwards, "I don't believe that was very professional."

"I won't tell Waverley if you won't," Gaby offers, runs her fingers lightly down Peggy's side, and Peggy smiles again.

"I'm afraid I've left rather a mess of lipstick," she says, light, and Gaby shrugs.

"I had better go," she says, gathers up her things and pulls back on her dress, buttons her coat tight. "Will you be in Helsinki much longer?"

"No," Peggy murmurs, and she sounds regretful. "No, I've a flight in the morning. To  _Dallas_ , of all places. Rather a long trip."

"Texas," Gaby says, questioning. "The President's visit, no? Well, at least it will be warmer there than here. Is it work?"

"A hunch," Peggy tells her. "Just a hunch. I- thank you, Miss Teller. For everything. It was lovely to meet you."

"Yes," Gaby agrees. "Yes, it was."

 

There's a picture, just one, that she didn't include in the packet of photographs. It's stuck to her bathroom mirror, and when she gets back to her own hotel, Gaby looks at it for a long time. Peggy's sitting at a cafe table, very precise, very pulled-together. Gaby can see the traces of something complicated in her face, a memory Gaby doesn't know how to place. Her lipstick is as sharp as Gaby remembers. Gaby looks at her own face, then, reflected in the mirror, and sees that Peggy has, in fact, made rather a mess of lipstick, in dark smudges down Gaby's throat. She wipes it off, slow, like dried blood.

She'd given Peggy all the negatives, knowing Peggy will see this photograph included, and see that it is not in the packet, and knowing that Peggy will know why. It feels like a weakness she's willing to allow, especially with the taste of cold vodka and velvet-dark lipstick still in her mouth.

She never sees Peggy Carter again. But Gaby is not so very old when Steve Rogers resurfaces, and not so very much older when she sees the Winter Soldier stalk down a highway with death in his eyes.  _Whose ghost are you, this time?_ she wonders, and remembers a woman, and her clear brown eyes, and her shaking fingers.  _Whose ghost are you?_


End file.
